Alone Is What We Have
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock's part of the story in "Verita Liberabit Vos". None of them can't remember the day John was left behind, but they can remember the moment when he decided to surrender. And John Watson has to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost, because from the shadows the detective moved his own strings to help John to break free.Warnings: Angst/dead character COMPLETE
1. Silence

**Title:**

**"Alone Is What We Have"**

**Summary:**

**Sherlock's part of the story in"Verita Liberabit Vos". None of them can't remember the day John was left behind, but they can remember the moment when he decided to surrender. And John Watson has to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost, because from the shadows, the detective moved his own strings to help John to break free. Warnings: Angst/dead character.**

**Rated:**

**M**

**Genre:**

**Angst/Hurt/Comfort**

**Warnings:**

**Angst, death character. Psychological/Physical violence. Unspoken words and broken hearts. **

**Disclaimer:**

**Neither Sherlock (BBC) nor the respective characters belong to me.**

**Author's Note:**

**I'm not an English speaker, apologies in advance for my mistakes. For those who wanted more after "Verita Liberabit Vos", I hope this new fic ****answers****all the reviewers' questions in "Verita..." If not, don't hesitate ****to ask and leave ****a review! Please don't hate me! It looks confusing now, but things will get clear soon!**

**Beta:  
**

**librarianmum**

* * *

**CHAPTER I:**

**SILENCE**

_"Silence is the relative or total lack of audible sound. It could also refer to the absence of communication. _  
_Silence refers to non verbal communication and spiritual connection"_

The two first fingers of his right hand are holding the pill. He takes it and then he hides the rest of them inside his pillow and let them rest between the feathers and takes two to five sips of water before closing his eyes. He knows half of a pill will guarantee him eight hours of an uninterrupted sleep, therefore, no matter how many times the man sleeping beside him tossed and turned, he won't wake up. Not even if the ceiling is falling over them.

The shower before going to bed relaxed his body. But his skin is still red and sore. The friction he provoked using his strong soap to erase any trace of the- lover? Can a man be considered a lover when they only spent fifteen minutes in which their human and primal needs were satisfied? No, he can't be a lover. Sherlock only used him to fill a need. _A need._

Sherlock has two to three minutes to think of something before the pill takes effect over him and he finally can close his greyish eyes and sleep. He is lying over his right side on _his_ bed, because it was and it still being _his _bed, and when he glues his hands together he sees the ring. A heavy, gold and unpolished ring he has been wearing on his ring finger of his left hand for what? Ten years?, he wonders. It depends on the situation; the ring would be loose or tight on his finger. It was tight when he was doing things people don't do when they wear those rings. Then, the ring would be loose when he was being the husband every woman or man would expect him to be.

_The ring _works as an attachment no matter how many books he read or how much time he spends observing, he will never understand the attachment, the bond the ring provides for two people. A single piece of jewellery, cheap or expensive, thin or wide, it does not matter; the ring has a power to manipulate people's mind in a very understandable way.

Three minutes passed.

A blondish man, approximately in his late forties, early fifties comes in and when he looks at him, he is sleeping. The only audible sounds between them are the taller man's light snoring and the hateful sound the mattress makes when he joins to sleep on the other side to be forgotten again.

Dreams are not his area of expertise. A fat book he found in the library of his house revealed to him that dreams were successions of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. The average person has about three to five dreams per night, but some may have up to seven dreams in one night.

But then again, Sherlock can't be catalogued as an average person, no.

We have to talk about the connection of dreams and the unconscious. There is a connection and the consulting detective does not see it.

In Sherlock's dreams, he is flawless. He can fly, jump, run and chase any criminal he wants to catch and he can inject himself with all the cocaine he wants and avoid death. However, a ghost haunts him in his dreams. And that ghost has a name; its name is John Watson.

There is one dream he can't either erase or delete from his hard drive. He remembers it every time he looks at his husband and it is a premonition. A premonition of the end he will not believe in. A premonition of something he can't believe will happen. A message his unconscious is trying to send to him, to make him understand the gravity of their present actions and most important, the gravity of his future actions. There is going to be blood on his hands, and it is going to be too late to wash them and ask for redemption and forgiveness.

In his dream, Sherlock's is playing the violin facing the window, with his back to the bed. He walks inside his own room and he sees himself facing the window, not being able to turn around and face the bed and the lifeless body on it. He wants to walk, he wants to know who is dead, what killed him and who did it. He wants to solve the case and when he tries to make his other self turn and face it, he can't succeed. His other self continues playing the violin strongly, pressing his fingers with more strength than necessary until his fingertips bleed. For some reason, every time he wants to take a look over the dead man on the bed, he sees nothing. All he can see are dark shadows and his other self playing the violin.

He will not shout to his other self. He will not beg either. For some reason he does not want to solve the case of that man dead on his own bed. Maybe because it is too domestic, not worth his time.

As he predicted, eight hours later he wakes up. He wakes up when he feels the other side of the bed and it's cold. It's quite early, but it doesn't matter if he wants to go out and pretend the impossible.

He walks past the kitchen and sees his husband sitting in his usual, worn armchair with a cup of tea on his hands. He has been counting and breathing, following his walking pattern. John has been counting his steps and he has his eyes closed. He has bags under his eyes. He is frowning. The wrinkle in the middle of his eyebrows is deep, almost cutting his white skin.

He doesn't give a fuck and goes out taking his coat and his blue scarf with him.

Sherlock knows John can't remember when was the last time they had shared a conversation. Neither can he. Can John remember his voice? Surely he can't. Can Sherlock remember John's voice? No, he can't. Does he care? Does Sherlock care at all?

Sherlock gives a fuck.

The problem is not finding what they have lost. The problem is forgetting it. The problem is trying to get a solution to end something that does not have any possible way to cure, to fix and to heal. There is a wound, two in fact. Each man has a wound and there must be a cure to fix it. They share a wound very deep inside their hearts and there must be a way to fix them. There must be a way to shoot their pain out of their souls before things get worse. Before one of them literally shoots it out all by himself.

And that moment is going to happen soon.

It will be too late for one of them.

* * *

Lestrade doesn't blink when he sees him so early at the Yard. It had been years and years so he is used to him and his antics.

For some reason the D.I of the New Scotland Yard hasn't seen John in weeks, months maybe? He has learned he cannot ask for the medical man and ex-army soldier, decides to stay away. It is not his division, but he was very fond of John. He was - he is - a very good man with a good heart. Actually, he was the only one who seemed to genuinely care for the tall man with the long coat.

When Sherlock asks him for cases, he hands him some folders and his dark eyes glance at the tan line of Sherlock's ring finger. He is not wearing it anymore.

And that is not new.

Greg Lestrade had been present when John was given his new diploma which certificated he was a pediatrician. Actually, he wonders if Sherlock knows. He wonders if Sherlock gives a fuck.

"How's John?"

He challenges his own luck.

The consulting detective continues staring and glancing at some pictures from cold cases and smiles. He fucking smiles and then moves some folders off the desk using his left hand, with his chin up, showing proudly that he's not wearing the ring both men exchanged on the day of their wedding, and he does it in a way Greg wants to pull out his own gun and kill him.

The heartless bastard smiles as if he's not the one to blame. He smiles proudly. How dare he?

"He's fine. Perfectly fine."

That's all he says. And Lestrade decides he doesn't want to know more. He does not want to hear more lies, because he knows those are lies. He has been following John, he knows he is walking among the streets like a ghost, like a soulless person. John was more than that. An Army Doctor, a surgeon in fact. One of the bravest men he had ever met. And he knew John had been the one who rescued Sherlock from his own and private hell - he was the one there when the detective refused to eat, sleep and be a normal person. He was the one who loved him. He was the one who provided him with the love no one could. John should be treated as the good person he was, as the only person in the world who truly cared for Sherlock.

Lestrade remembers the first time they met, John was the only one in the flat asking why everyone was looking for drugs he trusted Sherlock wasn't taking. He was naive, full of hopes about the great Sherlock Holmes. Was John the one to blame? The man bought a Heaven Sherlock offered, but it turned out to be the same Hell.

John does not deserve what Sherlock is doing to him. John deserves Heaven. The hell is in the same Earth and the demons are walking between the living ones. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Another encounter. Wet kisses full of lust and desire are exchanged, another _'fill me' _occupies the space between the two bodies, and the consulting detective lets the man touch his bare porcelain skin. It's not difficult to convince Victor to do it. Not when he ignores the white line in his ring finger. And it's definitely not difficult when Sherlock keeps John's name and existence in the shadows.

He frowns and moans when he feels the other man filling him. Sex has never been an issue and it will never be. He does not need to touch himself when he knows he can have a queue of men and women to do the job for him. He is so attractive and he knows it. He is so young, full of life and his dark hair is still dark. His porcelain face is still... there is not a single wrinkle! How do you do it, Sherlock? Do you use products on your skin? No, of course he does not. There is not a single preoccupation inside his mind. There is nothing to be worried about. He thinks he is flawless, for goodness sake!

When he arrives, he cannot have a shower. He is tired, Victor had been hard on him. But yet again, he gives a fuck.

He undresses himself in his bedroom and looks for his pajamas which had been neatly folded by his husband before going to work. He changes. He won't have a shower, he refuses to have one. Victor has left a too strong scent on him, even marks. Maybe those will help him. Maybe looking at them and feeling his strong perfume will make the other man surrender.

Maybe.

When the doctor arrives, carrying two heavy shopping bags and his own, he doesn't even move. He just continues there, lying flat over the sofa and thinking. Just thinking.

Oh, he forgot to do the laundry, bad luck there. Someone is not going to have clean trousers and his long white coat for work tomorrow! Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes. Shame on you.

Tonight, he wants something to eat. He wants rice, yes, rice is good. But when his husband approaches him, surely to ask what he wants for dinner, he turns around without saying a single word and leaves Baker Street.

Does he know how painful his existence, his silence, his presence and even his breathing is? Of course he does. And he is doing it on purpose, because he is not the one who's going to give up.

He thinks.

What Sherlock Holmes doesn't know because he does not want to, he refuses to accept it, is that he is going to be the first. He is going to be the first surrendering with his hands high over his head. Though, he will be the only one with the gun on his hand and the finger over the trigger. What Sherlock Holmes does not know, nor realise, is the fact he is going to help John to break free. He is going to open that small but endless cage in which he had locked John to never let him go. He will fly away, and he will be there, left behind to pick up the pieces.

Walking through his room, he looks at John's blue striped jumper. He loved that jumper, it suited his husband, making his blue eyes look even more perfect and brighter than ever. He bought it for him in one of those days he had money and he didn't know what to do with it. He used to love John so much in those days. He shook his head when he remembered the silly words, the kisses, the touches and the promises. _'Unacceptable'_, that's all he can think about while he takes another pill and sleeps.

That dream again. There are broken glasses on the floor and blood as well. He walks in avoiding them and as soon as he is in his room he meets his other self. But this time, he is hitting the lifeless body with the bow of his violin. Sherlock wonders if it is an experiment, because he can't think, he can't accept what he is seeing. There are no shadows this time, he sees clearly who is lying dead on the bed.

It is John.

He can't be John. John can't be dead. And his other self can't hit him.

Jekyll and Hyde. But even if the two of them seem to be the same person with different personalities, they share the same name; Sherlock Holmes.

In his dreams, he knows he is trying to save him. He tries to stop _'Dark Sherlock'_, he tries to reach out his hand and take the bow, but he cannot. He can only witness the scene and let his opposite, his other self do what he thinks he will never do.

He wakes up from that nightmare feeling the warm back of his husband softly and subtly against his own. Unconsciously, he is relieved.

He is not dead.

Now.

Do you see the logic here? Do you see how it works? Dual Sherlock Holmes. In his dreams, in those nightmares his other self is playing the violin or hitting his husband's lifeless body. In his dreams, he appears and he tries to stop '_Dark Sherlock'_. He tries to stop and defend John, Sherlock wants to stop the unstoppable and defend the indefensible. It is like, unconsciously, he is accepting what he has been denying to himself; he is still in love. He never stopped either caring, or loving or wanting John Watson, his husband and the unique love of his life.

The kettle boils and he prepares two mugs with the correct and exact amount of milk and sugar - he knows how John likes his tea - and places it where he knows he will see it when he finally stops crying again in the bathroom and decides to step outside to do something and go to work.

"Morning."

The great detective says while he sips his own tea and leans against the counter. His Blackberry feels heavy on his pocket and he takes it and types the first thing that comes to his mind. And he gets a reply. Seeing that someone has something he might find useful, he takes his long coat and his scarf and slams the door closed behind his back.

He does not give a fuck.

* * *

Sherlock solves two cases that sunny day and does not go back to Baker Street because he is too high with adrenaline to be there. The adrenaline cases provide for him is priceless. He cannot bear to go and face John.

Adrenaline also fixes the wound on his heart. Or at least, that's what he thinks while he is resting his tired body alongside that stranger. Well, Victor is not a stranger anymore.

He regrets nothing. Nothing he has been doing for the last twelve months. Sherlock does not regret his silences, his ring lost in the depths of one of his pockets, nor Victor. Why would he regret something he enjoys? Sex with John was bad, John was a bad lover and John was dull. A night with John meant a night of frustration, lack of excitement and more things he can't think of.

Wait, he regrets something.

Sherlock regrets being with John. He regrets the civil partnership between them, he regrets the ring he has to wear, he regrets the bed they have to share. He regrets all.

When Victor realised his status and asked him about it, Sherlock refused to talk about his husband. "He's dead." That's all he told the other man, who bought that lie as the previous ones. Sherlock is a good liar, you see. If he was able to lie to himself making his clever brain believe he did not love John anymore, then he can lie to Victor and then he will believe him.

He comes back the following day and it is late. He discards the dirty clothes and starts to fix the strings of his old violin. He plays when he wants, but clearly, tonight is not a good day to do so. Music is something he has used to calm down his mind and think. He doesn't want to think, not tonight. But Sherlock sees John carrying things. And his eyes travel around his husband and it takes him seconds to know what happened, the new things he got and why he got them.

Sherlock knows there is always a first time for things. And tonight, he is going to have a "new first". It is John's birthday and he can't give a fuck about it. And as he did not give a fuck when it is John's birthday, he does not give a fuck when he hears John's laughing at the basket full of dirty clothes. Oh, he forgot to hide the shirts impregnated with the other man's scent.

They sit in front of each other for tea. Two mugs filled with warm and hot water, two sugars and milk. Perfect.

Sherlock's aware of his husband's eyes on him, scanning his figure and the look on his face says everything he needs to know. He is wondering who is sleeping with him, who caresses his skin, his hands, who grabs him by his curls when he is having rough and wild sex in some cheap hotel with an unknown man. John wants to know, of course he wants to. Is he going to tell him? Of course not. Where is the magic then? Why tell his husband he is cheating on him, having an affair with an old acquaintance because he can't give him what he wants? Where is the fun on it? Why tell him what he is doing to hurt him if he only wants to see the wound left?

I'll tell you where Sherlock sees funny things. He sees funny things when he does not talk to his husband, when he does not touch him anymore. When he refuses to let him know how much he loves him, because Sherlock loves John. God, he loves him with his own life and he would do anything for him. However, Sherlock thinks the opposite. How's that, you ask. Well, it is simple. Sherlock Holmes is an idiot. He is being the bastard he thinks he is because that is the rule. He allowed himself to have feelings for someone, to surrender to the mere touch of a man and now he thinks that that makes him weak. That is why Sherlock Holmes does not wear his gold ring anymore, that is why he cheats on his husband and that is why he blindfolds himself and successfully convinces his mind he does not love John anymore.

Ignorant.

* * *

_The broken object is over the table rolling from one side to other and the sun is filtering through the dirty glass of the windows reflecting the colors__inside the kaleidoscope. But even broken, it's producing funny, undefined and colorful__images in the opposite wall. A pale hand takes the object and it dies when is smashed against the floor, showing the different beads and gems that used to give the object its psychedelic effect._

_A dark silhouette moves from the place he's standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this violin and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement he supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. The other hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin._

_The only audible sound is developed by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the glasses__are dirty but the light fights and win__s__, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are __shining__too and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control._

_The bow __is __hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. He stands up and walks until he's just inches away from him and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are __shining__._

_Sherlock Holmes isn't crying. He's just playing the violin because he needs to think __about __why the man lying in his bed is dead._

_Tick tock goes the clock._


	2. Freedom

**CHAPTER II:**

**FREEDOM**

_"Silence can mean anger, hostility, disinterest, or any number of other emotions"_

"As always, John, you see but you don't observe."

A statement. Sherlock Holmes is not asking, he is stating. His eyes are not watching, his grey eyes are burning John's skin and his voice is not being listened to, it's killing John. He sees the white tears coming down those blue eyes and for a second, just for mere seconds, Sherlock fights the urge to stand up and run. He fights that unconscious urge which tells him to run after his husband and tell him everything is going to be OK, that he loves him and he has never stopped doing so. Sherlock wants to hug John, he wants to kiss him, but when a nose bleed appears in plain sight and when John hurries down the stairs and leaves, Sherlock realizes he cannot do it.

He just can't.

* * *

Family is the most important thing in someone's life; it's where we come from. And it is what we build with the person we love. Family is all we have in the end, and he remembers his old landlady's voice.

It was such a big mistake to invite Victor to come over. Stupid, Sherlock, stupid. Why come to Baker Street? Another cheap hotel would have done. But no, once they met in that cafe in the opposite side of the city, Sherlock hailed a cab and he took Victor to the flat.

They fuck on the sofa, because the bed is too cold.

As soon as Sherlock makes Victor follow him to his room, he is determined to strip his own clothes off his body, maybe, just maybe smoke a cigarette and then let the man touch his skin, his curls and fuck his body. However, as soon as Sherlock feels those wet lips on his neck a thought haunts him. He sees his shadow, he sees him there, lying dead on that bed, as in his dreams and can't handle it. He can't handle being fucked on _their_- _his_ bed, and he insists on going to the sitting room and using the sofa.

Victor asks him if he can't do it because of his dead husband. Sherlock shakes his head.

"The bed is too cold."

They are wild, rough. The consulting detective does not like to be caressed or touched in any sentimental and romantic way. His skin has the traces of those old touches his husband has left on him, and he does not want anyone to erase them. Because Sherlock Holmes treasures those touches. He treasures them because he knows John will not touch him again. He has lost his chance a long time ago.

Stupid Sherlock, you know it. You heartless bastard, you know it but you know you are too cowardly to admit it, you are too cowardly to say it out loud. You are just too much of a coward to stop this, run to your husband and ask him for redemption and forgiveness.

Sherlock loves John, but his mind is playing a dangerous game. A dark, stupid and senseless game in which he is the man in charge of the strings of John's life. One false move, and John dies. His mind is playing a game which Sherlock will lose, because convincing himself that he does not love John anymore, means he has to shoot John with a gun aimed directly and indirectly to his heart.

Why? - you ask why he does this. Sherlock does this because he is Sherlock Fucking Holmes. He can't allow himself to have feelings. For him, those ten years married to John are nothing. He feels ashamed of his weakness, because for him, loving John and being loved by him are reasons enough to feel ashamed of himself. Sherlock Holmes should not have allowed himself the touches, the kisses, the ring, the promises and the 'I love you's'.

He blames John Watson. John is the only one to blame. He is the one responsible for those ten years of submission to his touches. Sherlock craved his touches, his kisses, his love. But now, he is the one making John suffer that feeling, that craving. John will feel the desire burning his own skin as Sherlock always did.

Is that enough punishment?

They are not facing each other. Victor is just lying against the soft and worn material of the sofa. He has pale skin, very pale, he is indeed as pale as Sherlock. So when the consulting detective buries himself deeper and deeper inside his lover, he faces that long and pale skin of Victor's back.

It reminds him of John.

Suddenly, he is not fucking Victor. The man in front of him is not Victor. The head is not dark, is blonde. Those deep moans are not Victor's. Those bony hips he is touching while he thrusts are not Victor's.

Victor is not Victor. Is John. And Sherlock is not fucking Victor.

Sherlock finds himself making love to John.

He grabs what he thinks is John's blond, soft and short hair and lets his own fingertips dance over that head. His cold touches on the man's bony hips are soft now and Sherlock presses his body to that large spine. His violent and wild movements are slow and caring, almost passionate. Victor turns his head to face the detective. This is not the usual Sherlock. And he sees that as soon as the man presses a soft and loving kiss to his lips and moans his dead husband's name.

_John._

Victor moves away. He moves and he lets Sherlock know his mistake. Both naked and randy men look at each other and Sherlock asks him to leave. Then Sherlock Holmes dresses himself, takes a last look at the sitting room and storms out Baker Street. He leaves the ring on the floor.

John is going to see it.

* * *

A black car is following him, and this time he knows he will not avoid it. The brother will do it again, he will take him to his office to give him a proper lecture about marital life, the good behaviour John expects from him and the moral rules he is breaking.

Mycroft enumerates the reasons why his actions are harmful not only for him but for his husband and life as he knows it. The member of the British Government hands him a folder full of John's pictures: John walking down the streets, John doing the shopping, John arriving at his place of work, John sitting alone on a bench in the park, John eating alone at Angelo's, John fighting a strong nosebleed outside Baker Street.

Mycroft assures him neither of them needs to be a doctor to see that that man is dying.

"Do not stick your nose in where it does not belong, Mycroft,"

The older brother sits facing the young man and smiles weakly and bitterly.

"Sleeping with that old acquaintance, brother? Still frequenting those cheap hotels? Well, at least you are not injecting yourself,"

Sherlock twists his mouth, "Jealous?"

Mycroft collects the photographs from his brother's hands and he finally takes a long sip of his mid-morning tea.

"Jealous of you ignoring the only man who truly loved for who you are? Ha, no. Brother, you have to understand that neither your sexual life nor your sex partners are a matter of national importance to me,"

Sherlock's mobile announces a new text. Lestrade has a new case and he is more than willing to go to offer his own help.

"Stay away from _us_."

The consulting detective warns his brother as he stands up from his seat to leave. Mycroft manages to curl his lips. Somehow his little brother said _'us'_ instead of _'me and John'_. He's thinking about them as _'us'_. For now at least.

Let's see in the future.

* * *

Stupid Lestrade. Stupid Lestrade and stupid police officers of the Met. Stupid case and stupid witnesses.

Nothing was supposed to lead him to jail. He is not supposed to be there, behind those cold and ugly bars. He was helping Lestrade and his brainless team for goodness sake!

Lestrade warns him that he is going to call John first time in the morning. Sherlock answers back and orders him to call Mycroft, he certainly prefers to be taunted by his brother to get the papers signed instead of having his own husband there. Is he embarrassed? Sherlock thinks he is not. But it is all the opposite. He is humiliated by his own behaviour, he thinks he is not, he believes he is not, but he is. The D.I. shakes his head and tells him it is late and that his husband must be sleeping.  
The consulting detective catches what Greg means. He knows Lestrade knows. Of course he knows.

But does John know?

Sherlock does not sleep that night, instead, he waits. He sits and waits quietly inside that jail for John to set him free. Wait, repeat that. Set him free? Yes, you heard perfectly. Perfectly well indeed. Sherlock needs John to set him free tonight.

After hours and hours just being motionless, thinking, cleaning his hard drive of useless data and files, he hears people talking. And they do it loudly, very loudly. Even from the jail, he hears people talking to John. And he also hears John talking to people. The last thing he hears is the rain.

It is raining.

Sherlock sighs and breathes loudly. Minutes have passed since John arrived, and Lestrade should have opened the door for him by now. He should have been walking free around the city long time ago, but John is delaying it. Of course John is delaying the moment in which he signs the papers to set him free, he is doing it because he wants to enjoy it, he wants to savor the moment and treasure it. Of course John wants to do that, Sherlock believes. The consulting detective thinks he is doing it on purpose, he thinks he will comment it to all his damn friends, to all the stupid police officers and maybe he will gain more dignity and he will speak to him and he will tell him. John will tell him he had to set him free, John will laugh at him.

And Sherlock thinks: if John laughs at him, he will tell him everything he already knows but chooses to forget. He will tell him about Victor, and about all the ones before him. He will tell him about the cheap hotels, the rough and wild sex, he will even tell him that he is not sexually satisfied with him anymore. He will tell him he wants a divorce, he will tell him he regrets their marriage - the civil partnership, he will tell him he wants him to disappear from his life. He will also tell him he wants him to be dead.

Lestrade appears, and he plays with the bunch of keys he has. He tries all of them, and Sherlock looks at John while the D.I. has all his attention on the keys. For seconds, they hold their gazes. They look into each other eyes and Sherlock smirks. He smirks and John looks down at the floor. John can't see him, he just can't see how his husband is looking at him. They have not looked into each other's eyes for so long, and when Sherlock does it and when he smirks, John wants to be dead and buried six feet under. It hurts him too much to see and know how much his husband wants to destroy him.

Once he is free from the jail, the three men walk together to Lestrade's office. The older man tells John the reasons why he had to be arrested while he hands him the papers John needs to sign. Sherlock screamed and harassed a witness and tried to steal some evidence from a police car. Here is where John makes a mistake. John laughs at Lestrade's comments and he says something he will not regret. He will not regret it, because he knows Sherlock will do things later, to get revenge. But when he only says "The usual," and Sherlock looks at him coldly, with a hatred no one has ever seen before, it is clear what will happen tonight. The D.I. sees this, but he does not say anything. John sees this and does not say anything.

John signs the papers, both are free to go. The doctor has played his part, now Sherlock will play his. So when the blonde man hails a cab and gets in, he is surprised when Sherlock follows him and sits beside him.

The car journey is long, and it is pleasant and devastating in its own way. But once they are inside Baker Street, everything starts as soon as John puts the kettle on. He is standing with his back to his usual armchair and Sherlock decides he is going to say everything. He is not going to keep it to himself anymore. He is going to let John know everything, even if he knows his own words are a death sentence and the man who will listen at them will die tonight.

Sherlock tells him everything. He starts saying all the things he has wanted to say. He yells at his husband all the things he had on his chest. He tells John the truth that John knows, but somehow has chosen to forget a long time ago. Sherlock tells John that he is useless to him, that he is nothing but rubbish, he tells him he has been looking for the excitement John had not been offering in cheap hotels. He tells him about the lack of sexual desire and he mentions Victor. He does not care for his language, but he enumerates all the orgasms he has had without him. Sherlock also tells him he's making his brain rot, that he has deleted him long time ago from his hard-drive and that he makes him feel sick. And he signs a death sentence by saying what he thinks he will not regret, but deep inside he knows he will.

Sherlock will regret it.

Oh god, he will regret it.

Sherlock tells John that he is already dead for him.

However, Sherlock wants to explode when he sees John smiling and falling on his worn armchair. It looks like he has not been listening, and for a second or two the consulting detective thinks his husband has gone blind, deaf and mute. Sherlock goes back in time, and he realises all the words and facts he has given John. They should have hurt him, John should be crying, on his knees begging at him to stop this and come back, be the couple they used to be. He thinks John should be asking him to leave Victor, asking him to be together again. But guess what, Sherlock Holmes? John is not doing any of it.

John is just smiling. And he smiles because he did not hear a word of what Sherlock said because he can't listen to all the things his eyes had not seen. As they say, eyes that not see, heart that does not feel. John had not seen all those things; therefore, his heart can't feel the pain Sherlock wants John to feel. This makes the young man convulse. He wants to make John suffer, Sherlock wants to make John feel like him, like the piece of shit he is, but John will not give him the pleasure. Because Sherlock does not know what else to do to destroy John. He is human, he must have a weak point somewhere. John is human, boring, he belongs to the average, he's dull and therefore, if it is not his heart, then what is it?

The detective grabs John by the collar of his shirt, he pushes his body and his light weight until John's back is against the nearest bookshelves. He makes John hit his head against an old and fat book and for the first time since they have arrived, John blinks and two tears fall from his blue but sad eyes. Sherlock raises a hand to the air. His fist and his bony, white knuckles are ready to hit John's face, but he stops. Sherlock stops his hand as soon as he sees John's eyes. Those blue orbs are wet, and begging for mercy.

The kettle is boiling.

He takes his coat and goes out, his mind his ruling over his heart and he's wondering what has happened to him.

* * *

**AN's: Thanks to librarianmum for being my beta! **

**To those who are still reviewing "Verita Liberabit Vos", thank you!  
**

**Please, if you have the time, review!  
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	3. Till Death Do Us Part

**CHAPTER III:**

**TILL DEATH DO US PART**

Sherlock knows he can't be there. He can't just act as if he has not done anything. He tried to hit him, he tried to hurt John in the way he thought he would never do. For him, words, some actions such as impregnating your own shirt with your lover's perfume and ignoring John would be the limit. It was supposed to be the limit, but he had been close to hitting him.

He wondered if that could accelerate the process.

It takes him three hours or so to walk round London and think about all those moments with him. Lauriston Gardens. The place looks different now, the house in which they found the pink lady is now occupied by new people, there are kids playing on the streets and it looks like everyone has forgotten the episode in which an evil cabbie gave a woman the choice between two pills.

Angelo's. Sherlock does not go inside; he just passes and sees a new couple having lunch in _their_ usual table, the closest one to the window. He even sees Angelo carrying a candle and the menus. The couple are kissing. Sherlock walks away. Too many years, and he has already cleaned it off his hard drive. He can't remember anything about that night.

A tornado of events, places, some loose words and Sherlock remembers little about John and their early years together in which they were only friends who painfully shared a love hidden behind looks, shy touches, awkward words and moments until one of them made the first move. Who was it? Was it you, Sherlock? Was it John? Who was it, Sherlock, can you remember? He can't.

The following ten years of marriage - civil partnership - are something he has deleted recently from his hard-drive. But there are a few things he can remember such as words, moments, bad times and tears.

Sherlock's spoken words and John's broken heart.

_"I love you Sherlock"_

_He closed his eyes and looked down at the pair of small hands hugging his torso. He sighed quietly, just to himself and moved his body in order to __keep his__ bare back __away __from the other man's head. And he found himself in the position he knew he was going to be someday. He was not able to reply __to __John's words. Sherlock Holmes found himself in the position he knew he was going to be._

_He can't reply back, because Sherlock Holmes does not love John Watson anymore._

_._

_"But-"_

_"This is important."_

_"This is also important, it's our anniversary,"_

_"I have important things to do."_

_._

_"You're not eating?"_

_"Why would I eat?"_

_"I care about you. Do you care about me?"_

_"No, I do not."_

_._

_He kissed him, he touched him. But he was not there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it._

_"Sherlock, what's wrong?"_

_"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"_

_"I don't know what's happening to you."_

_"You."_

_._

_"Your brother came-"_

_"I do not care."_

_"I wish I could have my sister alive-"_

_"What for? To see her drink __herself__ to death and ignore you as she always did?"_

_._

_"We need to talk"_

_"I do not want to talk"_

_"But we have something we need to discuss,"_

_"No, John. There is nothing I want to discuss with you."_

_._

_"You see but you don't observe."_

_"I'm not stupid you know,"_

_"That is what every stupid __person__ thinks."_

_._

_John was reading the reports of Sherlock's latest case while they were having another silent breakfast._

_"I love you, Sherlock"_

_He never got an answer and finally, John __spoke __to him for what __would turn out to be __the last time._

_"__Do __you still __care __about us?"_

_The dark haired man __made sure __that __his intentions __were very __clear in his husband's mind. And with a cold stare, he answered John's question._

_"No."_

That 'No' closed the door, and John did not find a way out of that hell, the hell Sherlock built. There was not possible way to escape. Since that day, John has been a puppet under Sherlock's painful and cruel strings._  
_

Careless moments, unspoken words and the result is inevitable, two hearts are broken. One of them was ruled by the brain of the same man. The game is coming to an end, and there is not going to be a winner. His own game, Sherlock's game will beat him. Just because he is so clever, it never gave him the right to try to destroy John.

Because everything Sherlock touches has to die. Everything under his touch, under his eyes and within his heart has to rot and die. Nothing survives after Sherlock Holmes. No one lives long enough to tell how it is.

And John Hamish Watson is not the exception.

Nothing makes Sherlock happy. If cases were people, they would all be dead by now. A new case appears, and it instantly becomes better and more interesting than the previous one. And when one man appears and he survives for ten years, you have to agree and say John was a record. He stays; he is still there washing his clothes, making his dinner, sleeping beside him every night.

Sherlock gave John a new opportunity and he bought it. John bought that man, that young, clever and loving man and god, he made such a bad choice. He bought Heaven, blue skies and endless happiness, but Sherlock only offered him the same Hell and all its demons, cloudy and dark skies and endless suffering and pain.

Everything Sherlock touches dies. That is something John knew all along. And if he wanted to be the exception, he was so wrong.

* * *

As soon as he arrives and undoes his own scarf, he sees John sitting on his worn armchair with papers and a pen on his hands. Right in front of him, is his black leather armchair and in the middle, a small table with two cups of tea and cookies.

Sherlock accepts the invitation.

He sits in front of John and takes the cup left. The milk and sugar are perfect. Sherlock holds the cup with his left hand and the saucer with his right, and while he sips the hot tea, he observes John.

He realises John has changed a lot. His blonde and sandy hair is white, completely white and his wrinkles are profound, almost cutting his pale skin and there are also new wrinkles around his eyes and between his eyebrows. His thin lips are bruised and they are pale. John is very pale. And he had lost a lot of weight recently. A lot.

There is something Sherlock can't lay a finger on; there must be something inside that man who is writing something he can't see. Sherlock can't see two things: That letter and its contents and John. He can't reach out for John's arm and take his blood pressure. He can't reach out to John's body to feel how his heart is beating. He can't run a hand over John's cheek to feel his temperature.

There are a lot of things he must do to understand what is happening, but they are also things he will not allow himself to do. For the first time, Sherlock allows himself to be ignorant and let things be.

He is also aware of John. Sherlock knows John knows he is looking at him, trying to deduce him and he does not want John to know that he can't do it.

John folds two letters into two different envelops. One is closed while another remains open. However, when Sherlock takes the last drop of his tea, he glances at his left hand and he realises he is not wearing _the ring_. He remembers he had dropped it when he was fucking Victor, and he also remembers he had dropped it close to John's armchair. Sherlock puts the cup back to the saucer and looks at the floor. The ring is nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock looks back at John, and he is not wearing a ring either. John is not wearing his own ring.

In the process of looking for it, Sherlock never stops to ask himself why he cares so much about both rings. It was OK before, if he was the only one not using it. It was OK if it was just an accident to arrive home and find John polishing his own ring. It was OK if he used to hide it from people. Why does he care so much for it right now?

But Sherlock stops looking when he feels something different. The silence between him and John is different. John is different. His breathing pattern has changed, and it is calmer now. John's movements are steady.

It is late, and he has to go to bed. He wonders if there are more pills. He would take all of them tonight.

* * *

Sherlock finds his pajamas neatly folded on his side of the bed and he changes, and as soon as his greyish eyes scan his beside table, he finds _the ring_. John should have found it. It takes Sherlock mere seconds to observe it carefully. It looks so old, it is unpolished, but the inside is shining as if it were brand new. The engraving shines considerably, and it says _'John Watson'_.

He can't find his pills, and he swears because he is sure he had them. And his plans are ruined.

When Sherlock comes back from the kitchen, John is already lying on his side of the bed. He turns off the lights and as soon as the mattress meets the weight of his body, it makes a very annoying sound. Sherlock hates that sound. John was always the one making that sound. John was always the last one going to bed.

Sherlock closes his greyish eyes and he tries to sleep, but he feels John turning to his side. He can feel his blue and sad orbs on him and Sherlock thinks he can consider it again. This game must end; he loves John, why must he make him suffer like this? Why must his brain rule his heart? Every time, every second away from John, his heart tries to make him understand it, that he needs John like air. That he needs him to live. But his brain is strong, it's too powerful to give up and it makes Sherlock surrender. Because he has convinced himself that he does not love John anymore. It has convinced him that everything under his touch is meant to rot and die. It has convinced Sherlock that John has to die to make him understand things.

He thinks how he should tell John that he wants everything to be as it used to be. Sherlock makes a list, he knows he will have to fight his own mind and convince himself otherwise, that he loves John, that John is his air, his life and that John is everything to him. He will have to teach his own brain to fall for John again, and he will have to erase that stupid idea of weakness. Love has never made him weak. Those last months without loving John have made him the weakest person in the world. And it is time to love him again, ask for forgiveness and redemption and be the couple they used to be.

But, will it be too late to do so?

"Sherlock,"

John is not asking him, John is calling him. John lets out a deep and silent sigh. And waits.

"Yes, John."

Sherlock answers back. For the first time in months, he replies back and they share a few words. Sherlock feels the words John wants to say, but he will not tell John to carry on, he will wait.

A pair of silent tears is falling from John's blue eyes and he smiles. He has got a chance tonight. And he is not going to waste it. He is going to cling to that chance to never let it go. John's heart is at stake and even when he knows he will leave soon, he wants to do it remembering this moment. Because John knows that, very deep in Sherlock's heart, he knows he is going to die.

Sherlock knows John is going to die. His mind is playing a tricky game with him, and he is ignoring it now. But the clock is going, and it is now too late to turn and kiss. It is too late to ask for forgiveness. It is too late for Sherlock to undo all the damage he has done.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

John waits.

He waits for an answer. There must be an answer.

Sherlock decides he will give him an answer. He turns a bit, just a little bit and he lets John see his greyish eyes. Complicity in the extreme. Both men are accomplices of something that will set them free. At least one of them.

"Goodnight, John."

And that is it. Now John Hamish Watson can rest in peace. Because he turns to see those photographs over the drawers again and he closes his eyes. Sherlock hears a deep and long sigh and then John's heart stop beating. His lungs stop moving and the ribcage stops rising.

Sherlock feels a need to turn to see him, because he can sense something. Something is wrong.

But Sherlock Holmes does not turn and he closes his eyes. There is a new case lying in his own bed, just beside him and he will not take it. Not know. Because this case is simply domestic, not worth his time.

* * *

_When John opens his eyes, he finds himself lying on green grass, holding hands with the love of his life. Both are dressed like the day they got married and he is smiling. John asks him why he smiles. And the other man stands up and offer his hand again and John can't deny his invitation. His limp has gone, as has the pain in his shoulder, and he wonders why this is happening._

_Sherlock hushes him and kisses him. He even assures John nothing will keep them apart. Nothing._

_"Not even death?"_

_The younger man walks with him until they stop in front of a large lake. The water is so clear and blue that John agrees with him that it looks like a mirror. Both men go down until their knees meet the green grass again and they look down into the water. Their reflections are clear. And the water, as a mirror, shows them their youth and the hope in their faces. There is nothing more. Just the two of them. Everything is about them. Just the two of them. And John Watson is happy. He feels his heart beating inside his chest and his eyes sparkling. This is the place he belonged to long time ago. And he even regrets that his presence here has taken him so long._

_"Nothing will keep us apart. Never. Because I have you." The dark haired man smiles and nods. They share a long and deep kiss until Sherlock breaks it. "And because I love you, John. I will always love you."_

_John nods with him in agreement. This does not hurt. This is what he craved for so long, this is the peace he wanted._

_This is Heaven._

* * *

When Sherlock opens his grey eyes, he hears his husband's clock alarm going off. He counts to three, but he does not turn it off. And it is annoying.

Sherlock presses a long arm over John's right shoulder in order to reach the clock and turn the alarm off. He believes that is enough to wake him up and decides to get to the bathroom to have a shower first. He can smell his own shampoo, and he discovers John had used it last night. And that doesn't annoy him in the slightest.

He expects tea when he approaches the kitchen, but the tea maker is not up yet. And, with an air of discontent, Sherlock prepares just one mug and one tea bag and at the time the kettle finally announces to him that the water is ready, the detective realises today is not John's free day. He must go to work and for some reason he is not up yet. There is a bag full of lollipops he knows John takes to his work and that bag is on the counter. John's white coat is in the basket and his bag is on the sofa. And he knows John Watson well enough to know he is never late for work. That is something he has not deleted from his hard-drive.

He turns on his phone. There are no texts from Lestrade or Victor. However, he remembers his idea. Sherlock remembers what he thought before going to sleep yesterday. Sherlock remembers about giving love and John a second chance. Though, Sherlock must give his own heart a second chance. Sherlock is the only one who decided to walk out of John, he is the only one who decided to surrender to his brain and he is the only one who destroyed the only love his life will ever have.

But there is something else. A smell, there is a smell he only relates to Molly because that is the smell of the mortuary, that characteristic smell you can only sense when you are in the presence of a dead body.

Sherlock knows what that smell means, of course he does. He had seen it, he had felt it and he had heard it. He had seen John vanishing with his own eyes, and he did nothing and now he smells that smell and he knows what that means.

The consulting detective does not know it yet, but he is going to face a new case, all the clues are going to be all over his own bed because he is the owner of those clues, and he will not be able to solve it. Sherlock will not be able to solve this case, not this one. Because, as soon as he leans in the doorway and sees John's body, he can't process what he already knows. Clues, there are a lot of clues, god, it is written all over it and he can't process it because he refuses to believe it. Sherlock Holmes can't believe what his eyes are seeing.

Sherlock can see the back of John's ribcage. And it's not moving. Curiosity kills the cat. He walks until he is standing next to John. He kneels until their faces share the same level. Sherlock moves his head from one side to another while he sees John's pale face. John's hands are so pale, so pale in a prayer position under his chin and Sherlock's pale hand caress his cheek. They are cold. John's body is cold and he is not breathing. John is not moving and no matter how hard Sherlock shakes his shoulders, John will not wake up.

Sherlock screams at John's lifeless body. He makes promises; he even begs him and tells him to come back, to stop playing this absurd and dark _game_. Sherlock also tells him to stop doing funny things, because this is not funny. Sherlock screams at John that he has learnt his lesson, that he will behave, that he will be the husband he deserves to have and that he will stop seeing Victor. His long and big hands are on John's shoulders and he shakes him over and over, and John's motionless head hits against the pillow over and over but his blue eyes are shut. He will not open them again and Sherlock continues making promises and asking for forgiveness and redemption.

The consulting detective does not care about the smell and the coldness of John's lifeless and extremely pale body when he starts crying and buries his own face on the dead man's chest. He kisses him and mumbles things just to himself. John's pale lips taste bitterly. Sherlock wants to feel that sweet taste again, he has been craving John's lips for so long that now that he is kissing him, Sherlock feels them bitter and cold.

Too late, Sherlock.

Two steps back and his grey eyes meet two envelopes over the bedside table. When he takes them, he already knows what is inside. Instinctively he opens the smallest envelope and prepares one hand to receive the contents inside. A letter addressed to him, medals and John's wedding ring, perfectly polished with its engraving inside shining.

_"Mine says 'John Watson' and yours 'Sherlock Holmes'"_

_"Because we belong to each other"_

_"Till death do us __part__."_

His dark silhouette moves from the place he is standing to his usual black armchair with a violin in his hands that are perfectly used to this instrument, and with a quick, studied and a very neat movement Sherlock supports his face over the chin rest and let his fingers dance over the scroll and then to the fingerboard. Another hand moves in the air holding the bow and soft, hurtful and dark notes are produced by this man and his violin.

The only audible sound is produced by this dark haired man and his violin. The curtains are wide open and the panes are dirty but the light fights and wins, illuminating the only man alive in that room and his dark music. The little pieces of broken frames and ripped pictures are shinning too and then the notes change their rhythm and the violinist is losing control. The bow is hurting the strings of his precious instrument and the fingers of the tall musician are bleeding. Sherlock stands up and walks until he is just inches away from John's lifeless body and continues playing heavily with erratic movements, frowning with the sun light that is also entering from the window in front of the bed. It shines over his pale and expressionless face. His grey irises are shining.

Sherlock Holmes is not crying anymore. He is just playing the violin because he needs to think about why the man lying in his bed is dead.

Tick tock goes the clock, even for him.

_"This letter is addressed to you and it's bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death..."_

The bow is moving slowly over the strings and the violinist is creating a new piece of music.

_"I know what is taking me now. It is you. You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight."_

He closes his eyes so tightly that his fingers are pressing the strings with more force than necessary. The creation, his creation, is changing its own colours. It's not a sweet tune now.

_"Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me..."_

The tune in his violin is dark.

_"Looking for Heaven, Sherlock, I found the devil in you..."_

The tune produced by his violin becomes scary.

_"Please, when you find my body, do not harm it... Let me rest in peace, Sherlock."_

The violinist stops and moves the bow against the lifeless body lying on his bed. Sherlock can't stop. He can't stop hitting John because he has left and nothing will bring him back. Not even hitting his dead body will bring him back. He promised it, John promised him they would always be together, that they would grow old together but he lied. John lied to him because he is dead now, he escaped from the same hell Sherlock built for them and now Sherlock is alone. There no one in this fucking world to love Sherlock Holmes because the only love god sent to him is now dead. Why? Because the same Sherlock Holmes killed him. Because everything Sherlock Holmes touches has to rot and die. And I told you, John Watson was not the exception.

Tears starts to flow from his grey eyes and he stops when he needs air, because he is convulsing. The detective can observe now what kind of bruises form on a dead body and that makes him remember that day, the day they met and the day they chose the other for ever.

For ever until death do them part.

Until now.

Sherlock Holmes covers his face with his hands, looking for a reason. Looking for the reasons. This is a case in which he is the owner of all the clues but then again, he can't solve this.

Sherlock Holmes can't solve the case of the death of John Hamish Watson. And he lets the letter lie on the floor.

**_April 15th, 2012. LETTER ADDRESSED TO SHERLOCK HOLMES._**

_Sherlock Holmes,_

_This letter is addressed to you and it is bound to be read by you and only you in case of my death._

_My life is a disaster, Sherlock, and I do not want you __in__ it. Not any more. The causes of my departure, physically speaking, are natural. I am not ill, __quite__ the opposite in fact, but my heart __has __decided it can't beat. And I __accept__ that without the concern of anybody else. Because naturally, my heart belongs to you. It __has__ always belonged to you, but you seemed to forget that. You, Sherlock Holmes, ripped my heart in countless __ways__ in front of my eyes every day with your silence, your coldness and every yell, and with your murdering eyes. So finally, I __have __decided I am done with my graceless heart. I went to Afghanistan and I met the same Hell, all its demons and I have seen so many lives being taken. I knew I could die at any moment, but I also knew I was not going to die there. I know what is taking me now. It is you. You are taking me and I know it. I know I am going to die soon after I finally close my eyes tonight._

_I always wondered if people know when they are about to die. If there is a signal or if an angel appears to tell you your time is done. And now I know it. I met my angel this morning before I could go and set you free from jail. And while I write this, I can't believe you needed me to be free. Please note this is not sarcasm. I know you were not good with sarcasm but now you are an expert. So I trust you will not detect any of it in this letter. I, John Watson, set you free early this day. God really planned this, hasn't he? Look at it as an exchange of favors; I set you free this morning, and now you are realising you did the same in the night._

_No matter how hard I try to think, I can't find the moment when everything started. I can't find the moment when both of us stopped talking, when we stopped holding hands. I can't find the moment when you stopped loving me, if you did. But I know you did. I could have ripped my heart out of me just to remember that moment when you stopped loving me, the last time you kissed me, the last time you touched me. The last time you told me you loved me and I can't remember, Sherlock. I look at old pictures of our wedding or the ones about __our__ first cases together, and it hurts like Heaven not being able to remember those moments. And I treasured them in my heart and then again, I can't remember. Can you, Sherlock? Can you remember the moment I proposed to you, the moment when we first made love, the moment when we had plans together? I do not even know why I am asking if you are not going to answer me. Maybe after tonight I __will__ be able to know the answers __to __all those questions, but it hurts me to know I will not be able to hear them from your own mouth._

_It is hard to love a demon, not impossible, but it is hard. A fine romance, isn't it?. But __it's__ leaving me so impaired. A half heart can't beat when the other half __has__ left. And I can see no way in this life without you. I need you to continue breathing and my heart needs you to continue beating. And you are not here for us, so __it__ is better if I __kill__ this pain your absence is causing us._

_Also, I wanted to tell you so many things, face to face obviously. But it is so hard to do it when your own eyes are burning my skin. My throat feels sore. I __cannot __speak for myself and this is why I am leaving this letter. When we came back __from__ the Yard early today, I __stood in__ the middle of our sitting room hearing my conviction from your lips. I have heard every accusation and you signed my sentence. I was not able to hear you and I am still can't. I am deaf and I am speechless. I swear to God I was not able to hear your yelling, your words, your truth. My knees were weak and my eyes were blind. I prefer to leave this world remembering those happy moments between us __rather than__ you yelling at me things I do not deserve. Because I do not deserve the __feelings of hate __you __have for__ me. And I do not understand what I did to deserve this from you. I can't remember the last time I felt any joy. The last time I felt my heart warm. _

_I can only remember the moment when you almost hit me._

_You may care about this or not, but I am leaving this world relieved. I have lived a life full of good and bad moments, more good than bad, believe me. I am grateful to you, because without you maybe I __would__ have killed myself a long time ago. You gave me all the love I wanted and despite the fact that __that__ love died before me, I am __leaving life__ as I knew it, happily. The only thing I regret with all my heart is not being able to tell you face to face what I already have written here, and what I already know and what you seemed to forget._

_While I am writing this you are furiously observing me through those grey eyes. I am observing you, and you have not changed in the past ten years, Sherlock. I admire that. Believe me. Not a single wrinkle in that porcelain face of yours nor a single white hair in that dark and curly head. You resemble youth and life. Have a long life, Sherlock._

_My apologies for leaving my will to your brother (I don't know how __you will feel about that__, maybe relief, I do not know), but I seriously do not want you to be bothered with a dead body and __also__ my things. I am truly sorry for my boxes upstairs. I __catalogued__ everything and you can do whatever pleases you with them but, as a suggestion, think __of__ your homeless network. I am sure they will need jumpers and jackets this winter. Before you ask your brother, I do not want to be buried. I do not want and I do not need anyone feeling the need __to go__ to the cemetery to leave me flowers. Not even you. But that is something Mycroft will be taking care of. My flags, my medals and my wedding ring are bound to be burnt with my body. Please, do give them to your brother._

_Do not worry about the police. The causes of my death, as I wrote at the very beginning of this letter, are purely natural so they will not be charging you with murder. And yes, I have been searching for information. And I also know the police __like__ to pop their noses where they __are not supposed__ to. You will call them soon after you find my dead body. Pretend some sadness and fake some tears. It will be helpful for you, trust me. But then again, that is something Mycroft will be handing as well and I am truly sorry for bothering you with Mycroft. I know how much you dislike him (I am sorry, but I can't use the word 'hate' like you do) but he is the only one left and I do not have any family to ask for all these things. I think that after years being your keeper, this is the last thing I can ask for. No one will be charged with my death. I will leave that to the God I do believe __in__._

_Please, when you find my body, do not harm it. I __don't care less__, really. But do not __take out__ your fury __on __me. The only thing I am asking you is __to respect my__ dead body. Let me rest in peace, Sherlock._

_If I could go back in time, believe me when I say I __would not change a thing__. Not a single moment. Not Afghanistan and not even meeting you in that lab at Bart's. I would __choose __all of that again. Even this pain, Sherlock. Even this pain, if it means I would be able to share all those years with you, all over again. I am trying to convince __myself that__ the good moments __with __you __were worth__ these last months. I love you. I love you with all my heart, with all my being. I would give you all my blood if you ask me to. I would give you my heart if you need it. But I do not blame you, Sherlock Holmes must have got bored with me __a__ long time ago, and it is my moment now. I can't __help being the boring__ John Watson. I am sorry if you expected more of me. And no, I __am not pitying __myself__ in order to make you feel bad and guilty. Do not feel guilty, Sherlock. I am only saying (or writing) the truth __that __you, Mr. Punchline, couldn't tell me. I see and I do observe._

_Continue working, the world needs __your__ cleverness. London needs you._

_Captain John Watson, M.D._

* * *

**Author's Note: **

**Thank you so much to the lovely librarianmum for being my beta and to the readers for their support and feedback. **

**The following chapter should be the last one. So please, if you have the time, review! **


	4. The Final Act

**Author's Note:** Thanks to the lovely librarianmum for being my beta! And to all the readers and reviewers, your comments were very encouraging!

There is going to be a sequel! It should be up very, very, very soon! As I'm not going to tell you the title (surprise!), I'll post an author's note letting you when it is online, or you can add me to your author alerts.

Thanks for reading and please if you have the time, review!

Lots of love,

A.

* * *

**CHAPTER IV: **

**THE FINAL ACT**

The broken object is on the table, rolling from one side to the other. The sun is filtering through the dirty glass of the windows. And the kaleidoscope still reflects the colors hidden inside it. But even broken, it's making funny, undefined and colorful shapes in the opposite wall. A pale hand takes the object and it dies when it is smashed against the floor, showing the different beads and gems that used to give the object its psychedelic effect.

Sherlock let's his eyes meet with the mantelpiece and he sees them all. All the pictures and souvenirs John had been looking for the day before to say (good) bye. He doesn't need to be a graduate from Cambridge to count the three pictures and recall all the moments they represent. The first one had been taken after solving a strange and peculiar case at the local theater in London, wearing hats. Both of them. The next one has the two of them writing on their laptops almost smiling, a picture surprisingly taken by their landlady when she used to live there. The last one is the biggest. Taken the day of their wedding as John calls- correction - _used_ to called it. But it was only a civil partnership. A contract which both of them signed to be responsible for the other in case of accidents. Sherlock always believed it was not necessary, but John insisted and god, he insisted a lot. And the detective agreed. But now, the document saved in the deepest of their desk drawer is no longer useful if his brother is the one taking care of all of his husband's things.

Even his own body.

Sherlock smashes all the frames against the floor and his bare feet bleed when they meet the broken glass. He doesn't care. Because not being satisfied with the damage on their carpet or the damage imposed on John's work, Sherlock takes them with his hands and rips them. And all the pictures die in uncountable numbers of little pieces. Especially John's face.

Because the hatred Sherlock Holmes has been sowing against John Watson explodes today. And as it explodes, it also dies. The game Sherlock's brain has been playing dies today, no one wins, and the only loser here is Sherlock. However, John is not the only damaged man here; the fact that he is the only one dead doesn't mean that Sherlock isn't damaged. His heart is aching inside his chest and nothing and no one will fix it.

A deerstalker hat also meets its own death when it's burnt with acid in the sink.

The violinist takes his musical instrument again and looks for his scores. He will play again that song and he will not mind about his bleeding feet or his bleeding fingers. He will not mind about the hurt and damaged strings, no. He will play and play, all over and over again. But Sherlock's greyish eyes find John's mobile over the sofa. He has a text, an unread text.

**Message from Mycroft Holmes - 10.23 P.M**

_**Everything has been settled. MH**_

The tall man frowns when he reads the unread text on John's mobile phone. John had mentioned Mycroft in the letter he addressed to him, but he is not aware of all the things John Watson had asked. Things Sherlock Holmes will not be part of. Because John Watson did not want him to. But he plays. Sherlock plays a long and dark song he composed long time ago, and he plays for his little audience. A dead man lying on his bed,everything is a mess. John's tee is ripped after he had hit him with the bow of his violin. His back is full of purple marks and they produce an awful spectacle. John's tired and sad expression remains there, and it's haunting Sherlock. John died being sad and tired, and despite the fact Sherlock can't see his husband's blue eyes, he bets they would be as sad as his facial expression is.

Sherlock would give everything only to see those blue eyes again. He would also give everything to kiss and taste John's sweet lips again. They are bitter and cold. He would give everything only to feel John's blood running again inside his body, so he could touch him and feel him warm, and alive. Sherlock would give everything to bring John back to life. He would give his own life.

The detective opens the window and lets all the residents at Baker Street hear his composition. The sun shines incredibly, stronger than usual and soon he hears three cars at their door and people on the stairs.

He stops.

The first person to come inside is him, and that is so predictable. Mycroft and his men, plus his black suit with a matching tie and a dark umbrella as well. Mourn. Mycroft Holmes is mourning John Watson. Predictable. A man well dressed, not speaking at all, gestures the group of forensics to remove the body, but with a cold glare, the British Government man closes the door to the room.

And there is only him, his brother and John.

Sherlock does not care about his appearance, he does not care about the fact he is still wearing his pajamas, nor the fact his eyes are red and there are traces of tears on his face. Last time Mycroft saw him crying, it was more than thirty five years ago, when Sherlock was only a little boy. Mycroft, as John once said, had broken his action man. But Mycroft only did it because Sherlock had done the same to his own toys before. Now Sherlock has broken his own action man and Mycroft is not here just to see him crying. He is here to pick up the pieces and help John. He will give John the help he was supposed to give him before. Mycroft knows the second life Sherlock has been leading, he knows all about his little brother's adventures and he also knows all about John's sadness. He also knew John was going to die soon. It was only a matter of time. Mycroft saw it first, but Sherlock ignored it. And it was _textbook_.

"What do we know about this man?" Sherlock Holmes asks, while he places his violin on the other side of the bed, his side, and with the bow in his right hand he uses it to point at his dead husband. His older brother is just following his movements with his green eyes. Mycroft's green eyes look so tired and sad. Receiving John's will and his letter was the last thing he ever wanted. Even when he knew this was about to happen.

This was bound to happen.

"What do we know about this _dead_ man on the bed?" Sherlock emphasizes the word _dead _and continues speaking while he touches and observes John's body, as if he were just another corpse at a crime scene.

John is now a new case.

"What do we know about this _dead _man over my bed? If I did not know him, I would say late forties, early fifties. Looks older judging by the wrinkles in his face and the white hairs on his head. Stress. This man had been under a lot of stress and through a strong depression recently. Marks on his neck. He carries a heavy and big stethoscope, the ones used for children, Doctor, pediatrician more likely. Army Doctor in fact. Could be Afghanistan or Iraq. He has a big scar on his shoulder. A shot, invalided back to London. Not only that, he used to have a limp years ago, but it came back,"

Sherlock removes the blue socks on John's feet and looks at them carefully.

"It came back a year ago judging by the light bruises in the arch of his feet. His hair is neatly combed and the pillow is slightly damp. He took a shower before going to sleep. He used a lot of soap, he still has the residue of it under his arms and legs and -"

This time, Sherlock touches his hair, closing his eyes when his fingertips met the softness of his deceased husband's hair. He smells like him. John had used his shampoo.

"- And the fact his hair and his pajamas are perfectly conserved, they indicate he died soon after he fell asleep. He never moved once he lay in this bed-"

"_Why_, Sherlock?"

Mycroft interrupts him and with a very dry throat. It is the first time he has managed to say something to his brother since he has put a foot in Baker Street. He feels the need to slap him hard across his face. Mycroft wants to disinherit Sherlock. He wants to stop giving his brother the fortune he had been managing since both of their parents died. He wants Sherlock to beg to him. But that's something Sherlock did to John. Because he is Mycroft Holmes and he is older than Sherlock, he is cleverer than him and he is intelligent enough to see that Sherlock has only begged for mercy twice, and only to John. And that has happened today.

"He's left handed. He has a callosity in the middle finger of his left hand where he supports the pen when he writes. He had several bruises and scars over his body. Three types of scars, some of them are from his childhood. A very clumsy kid. Some others are from knives. This man does not look like the drinker type who has fights after pints in a pub. He was used to fighting at pubs for someone else, not for himself. A close relative, a sibling more likely. The last type of scars are more recent. In the inner part of his arms and under his ribs. He must have fallen over the pavement of a street or over the cement floor of a public pool trying to push someone to the water. He tried to save someone, he tried to keep someone alive -"

"Sherlock -"

Mycroft can't stand this anymore. He just can't. He can't just stand there, while Sherlock does and undoes clothes, moves from one side of John's lifeless body to the other only to show how clever he is and how well he can deduce his own husband's dead body. But Sherlock continues, he continues because he knows Mycroft can't stand it and because he also needs answers. Sherlock needs the answers.

"Oh, but there's more! His _ring_. He has a ring, he is married but he removed it before going to sleep. The white line in the ring finger of his left hand? Too strong, without looking at the ring I would say he has been married for years,"

The detective takes _the ring_, the very same one which was resting on the bedside table and looks at it carefully. His grey eyes move from one place to another, scanning it and making his own conclusions.

"Despite the fact that this ring looks brand new, it is not. The owner of this ring, this man here, had been polishing it through the years and before, probably yesterday afternoon. Strong sentiments, this man was deeply in love with his partner. The engraving. The engraving says a lot since it doesn't have this dead man's name but his partner's. '_Sherlock Holmes'._"

A long silence invades the room. Mycroft Holmes, the British Government himself stays in his place, standing in front of the large bed where John's dead body is lying motionless. His green eyes scan the room and he sees all the things John had warned him about beforehand in his letter. The flags, the medals and the ring are beside him, as he said. He also warned him about his brother's actions. His tee shirt is torn. He can see his body has been moved. He can also see purple marks all over John's back and arms. He has been hit with something and that something is in his brother's long hands. He also knows Sherlock has been shaking John's shoulders, just trying to bring him back.

But now it's time to take John away from Sherlock and do as he was asked to. Mycroft must do it, because John made him promise he would. Mycroft is a man who keeps his promises, so was John.

And Mycroft Holmes remembers John's letter by heart.

* * *

**APRIL 15TH, 2012. LETTER ADDRESSED TO MYCROFT HOLMES. **

**TO BE READ BY HIM ONLY IN THE CASE OF MY DEATH.**

_Dear Mycroft Holmes,_

_As it says above, if you are reading this, it means I am going to die._

_I am leaving you my Will because I do not want to disturb your brother with things he can't do and he will not mind at all. I do not want to impose anything on him or you, but my parents are both dead, my sister left years ago when she drank herself to death. I do not have anyone. You, Mycroft, my brother-in-law, are the last family left and I am proud and happy you are the only one._

_There is no need to explain the reasons of my departure though I bet my life (my life) that you already know why. After all this time, I do not really want to think of how long exactly I have been fighting against this moment and I have decided I must finally surrender._

_You are aware of how many times I tried to convince Sherlock to talk to you, to be the brother you do deserve, after all, you are the only Holmes left after your mother's death and I am aware of your love for your little brother, of your concern about him. So in exchange, let's put it this way, I am only asking you to take care of my body and the police. I feel so embarrassed, asking you for this, like an exchange of favors, because believe me, Mycroft, I never wanted anything in exchange for being your brother's partner._

_Sherlock can't be charged with my death, even when I am supposed to die naturally. I do trust, and I am aware of all the power you have in your hands. Tomorrow, I need you to arrive early in the morning, before eight. I must be lying in Sherlock's bed. You will need to create a show for the neighbors. Actors, or if you have a special forensic team, it will help. Remove my body from Baker Street as soon as you can. I need to be away from here because I know what will happen to me. Your brother has strange tendencies, Mycroft. Take me away as soon as you can and then burn my body. I do trust Sherlock will hand you my flags, my medals and my wedding ring. They should be on my bedside table. Burn them with my body and throw my ashes in the Thames and please, do not tell anyone my location, where you threw my ashes. I have good and bad memories there, but the Thames hides so many things that the ashes of a dead man will not cause any trouble at all. _

_Please, do not let anyone investigate my death, or my body. I do not need to be taken to a mortuary. Believe me, my heart will stop beating. That is all. A painless death. Arrange everything so it looks like an instant heart attack. I need you to keep this from Scotland Yard. Lestrade needs to believe I died that way, or they will not give Sherlock any more cases and we both know what happens to him when he is not using his magnificent brain._

_My savings are in that bank account you already know about and I want you to give that money to the Pediatric wing at the hospital. There is not too much, but enough to buy new toys and a few things for the kids there. They do deserve something, after giving me all the happiness and love they gave me. And believe me they did a great job. They made my dark days a bit brighter._

_A last request, my dear brother-in-law, do take care of your brother. Sherlock is fully capable of it, but keep an eye on him. I have the feeling you will have to hire a housekeeper or a maid tomorrow. Make sure he keeps working, that he keeps his mind working, that the person who owns him now does not harm him or break his heart. Make sure he is happy. Make sure he lives. Make sure Sherlock lives a long and prosperous life._

_Make sure Sherlock forgets me._

_I am truly sorry for leaving you in charge of these things and I do not want to impose on you for anything. But as I said, you are the only one left. You, my brother-in-law, you were and you are like the brother I never had. I regret with all my heart telling you this by letter, and there are so many things I always wanted to tell you. I regret not being able to talk and even giving you a last handshake. I am sorry. I am sorry for not letting you know this before. One of my biggest regrets is this. I really wish I could give you a hug, like the one you gave me when I got married to your brother. You are a very clever man, I do not really have enough adjectives to describe someone like you, but I will miss you a lot. You were like a brother to me, and you always have been there when we needed you. And I am leaving relieved, knowing the British Government and this world are in good hands, Mycroft Holmes._

_Have a long life._

_Yours truthfully,_

_Captain John H. Watson. M.D._

* * *

Mycroft tells Sherlock about the letter without reading it, because he knows it by heart and he repeats every word, every one. Even the commas, the points. Everything.

"Why, Sherlock?"

Mycroft asks again. The young man looks at his brother and runs a hand over his dark curls. He looks down at his left hand, where his wedding ring is. It is dirty, unpolished for years now. Sherlock does not want to do it, he wants to glue that ring to his finger. He does not want to be without that ring. But he removes it. Sherlock removes it from his finger and compares his with the other one.

"The owner of this ring has not been polishing it for years, but it shines inside. The owner of this ring was used to removing it to claim his singleness, because something about his partner made him. His name is engraved inside. His partner's name shines. _John Watson_. The dead man had strong feelings towards his partner, even when he thought that that person did not love him anymore,"

"_Why_, Sherlock?"

The older Holmes asks for the last time. He repeats the question because he wants to hear the answer. He knows the answer, but he needs Sherlock Holmes to say it. Because Sherlock Holmes knows.

And he is finally going to reply.

"I know he died after closing his eyes last night because I saw him. He said goodnight, I replied and I saw him dying. I heard him, I heard his last breath and I also heard his last beat, the last beat of his heart. I saw John _dying_."

That is all Mycroft wants to know. That is all everyone needs to know.

Sherlock had to say it to understand it.

* * *

The forensic team hired by Mycroft Holmes removes the body of the deceased Army Doctor, John Hamish Watson, shortly after eight in the morning in a black bag. Many neighbors show their condolences to the widower who is standing in the doorway, watching the police and forensic cars leaving, following his brother's dark car.

It was not supposed to be like this. John was not supposed to end up like this, dead at a very young age, inside a black bag, being carried by a fake forensic team to somewhere Mycroft refused to reveal. He did not deserve to die alone, heartbroken and sad.

John deserved to die old, with the love of his life, with Sherlock beside him. John deserved children, birthday parties, kisses, touches and love. He also deserved to be buried with full military rights, he had fought for the Queen and for his country, and for Sherlock Holmes. He had fought for him and for their love. John deserved a grave where people could go and leave him flowers.

In silence, the detective returns to his flat. Two hundred and twenty one B of Baker Street is so silent today. The tea he made for himself is cold now. There is such a mess! Broken glass from the kaleidoscope John built years ago. Broken glass from the pictures and frames smashed against the floor. The smell, that characteristic smell from a mortuary had gone from Baker Street. Sherlock takes John's perfume and tries to impregnate the whole flat with his scent. He wants John to be there.

His feet ignore all the traces of broken glasses and he lays in his bed. On his side of the bed and he lets his bleeding fingers trace imaginary patterns on John's side. The pillow is still damp from his wet hair, from his shower yesterday. The sheets, the duvet, all the room smells like John.

Sherlock Holmes closes his eyes and remembers all the moments he had lived in that bed.

.

_"What are you doing?"_

_"I'm over you in my bed"_

_"I know, Sherlock. But you -"_

_The dark haired man kissed his Doctor for the first time, that night after returning from a long hiatus of three years. And John kissed him back._

_._

_"I want you,"_

_"You say it so easily."_

_"You don't want me?"_

_John smiled at him and let a hand ran over Sherlock's soft and wild curls "I want you. I love you with all my heart, Sherlock."_

_"I love you too, John." Sherlock said and then he proceeded to kiss his partner._

_._

_"Would you marry me?" John was lying on him. His blue eyes were shining. He was waiting expectantly for an answer._

_"Why bother getting married? We are fine this way. Papers and ceremonies are rubbish,"_

_"I want to be with you, and-"_

_"You are already with me. Actually, you're on top of me."_

_"I just want you- in case, just in case something happens to me, I want you to have power over things."_

.

_John kissed Sherlock, he touched him. But Sherlock was not there. Sherlock's body was there, but his mind was somewhere else. And John could feel it._

_"Sherlock, what's wrong?"_

_"Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?"_

_John frowned "I don't know what's happening to you!"_

_"You." Sherlock replied back coldly and turned to his side. Turning his back to John, he turned off the lights and closed his eyes, ignoring his husband's sad expression._

_._

_John was reading a fat book. For some reason John had been reading a lot of medical journals and books lately._

_"Sherlock, I need you to come with me to Bart's, tomorrow early -"_

_"I'm working."_

_"I know. But this is kind of... important to me,"_

_"And I have work tomorrow."_

_After that day, John started buying bags of lollipops he religiously took to his work. Sherlock never asked why._

_._

_John was reading the reports of Sherlock's latest case while they were having another silent breakfast._

_"I love you, Sherlock"_

_He never got an answer and finally, John spoke to him for what would turn out to be the last time._

_"Do you still care about us?"_

_The dark haired man made sure that his intentions were very clear in his husband's mind. And with a cold stare, he answered John's question._

_"No."_

_The night after that silent breakfast, John got under the duvet without saying a word. Sherlock had admitted what John had been suspecting for a long time. The detective had lost interest in them. In their relationship. In their love._

_Sherlock waited while he heard John's silent crying. Because he knew John was crying. But for some reason, Sherlock did not say a word._

_And that was where everything started._

Sherlock knows he can't go back in time and change what he did. He just can't.

* * *

Sherlock's mobile phone rings. He hasn't moved from his place on the bed. He is still there, crying in silence while feelings crash against his chest. The real feelings, the moments, the memories, John, all of them crash against Sherlock's heart. And his chest aches. He talks alone because he knows John is there, listening to him. Sherlock asks John how he knew he was going to die. Who told him. Why he never said a word. Why John had to go and break his promise. Why John left him alone in his own hell, because he can't find a way to escape.

Sherlock asks him why he left. He says he never stopped loving him. And rage, that strange and hurtful feeling invades him. Because he does not even know where John will be, because John did not want him to know. And Sherlock knows why, but he can't deduce where John wanted to be hidden, where he wanted to finally rest. Sherlock erased so many things, folder and facts about his John that now, it is impossible for him to deduce and work out something as easy as the location of a grave. He also realises he knows nothing about the man who was lying dead. Sherlock only remembers the past and some moments, random moments: a pool, John jumping on him to save him from a bomb. John killing a cabbie less than twenty four hours after their first meeting. John watching him die. John visiting his fake grave. John running after criminals. John putting himself at stake for him. John saved him. John had put his own life at stake for him, to keep him alive.

Sinking in his own despair, Sherlock cries. He hugs John's still wet pillow and cries alone. He begs John to come back and stop this, he begs to the god he never believed in to bring his John back. He makes promises and asks for forgiveness. He also says out loud he regrets everything. Sherlock begs John to come back and be the couple they once were.

The consulting detective cries and he regrets it all. He regrets having that clever mind he has because he knows his own mind played a trick on him and he just accepted it. He forgot John and he convinced himself John was nothing. Sherlock told John he was already dead to him. Sherlock will regret for the rest of his life.

Sherlock sobs against John's pillow and tells him he was not boring, he tells him he was the most brilliant human being he had ever met. He also tells him he misses his touches, his kisses and his voice. Sherlock admits he can't live without him.

The detective looks so absent. He looks like nothing. And finally someone had reduced Sherlock to nothing, to being an ordinary man crying after the death of his husband. Sherlock Holmes is crying and he is feeling that bereavement, that heavy weight on his chest, the very same one John had been carrying for months until today. Sherlock is feeling forgotten by John.

Sherlock admits his mistake. He also admits that feeling alone hurts. Now he understands John and his tears.

John managed to escape, and he did it in the best way he could. He did it in the only way he knew his heart could possibly handle it, because he was not able to walk out of Sherlock's life just like that, John was not able to say _'Enough'_ and he was not able to start a new life. Because Sherlock Holmes was his life. Sherlock was his air, his heart, his everything. And he disappeared. Sherlock disappeared from his life and John could not see, could not imagine a life without him. John Watson could not conceive of a life without Sherlock Holmes.

Because John Watson had to die to make Sherlock Holmes understand what he had lost. And now he knows it. Sherlock knows what he has lost and he is also aware he can't go back in time. Sherlock would give anything only to see those blue eyes again. He would also give anything to kiss and taste John's sweet lips again. They are bitter and cold. He would give anything only to feel John's blood running again inside his body, so he would touch him and he would feel him warm, and alive. Sherlock would give anything to bring John back to life. He would give his own life.

Sherlock looks at the unpolished ring on his finger ring and he finally remembers something. And that moment it is clear like water.

On their wedding day, John was on tiptoes kissing him. And he promised Sherlock something.

_"I'll love you, always. For ever. Even after death do us part."_

Sherlock wonders if John is still keeping that promise alive.

**Fin.**


	5. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

**Hello readers! The third installment which follows "Verita Liberabit Vos" and "Alone Is What We Have" is already up and you can find it under the name of "Atonement" Hope you like it and please, if you have the time, review!**

**Thanks to librarianmum for being my beta, and all the readers and reviewers!**

**Lots of love,**

**A.**


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